


another rabbithole to somebody

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2k17 the year i just have to take it too fucking far don't i, M/M, and i'm taking myself directly to jail, but here we are, but it's kind of cute in its heart, i mean like warning for age difference and generally messed up dynamics i guess, idk maybe anyway, look this is just completely fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is much worse than Lewis, nearly a decade ago - this is the garage fire he deserves to burn to death in but fuck if he can't help closing his eyes, as though he can escape his own judgement if it's not reflected back by dark, eager pools.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For you, you hos. You know who you are. 
> 
> Here is an insurmountable amount of garbage, it disgusts me as well.

With him kneeling in front of him, his cock in his mouth and those massive dark eyes looking up at him Fernando knows he's going to hell, stroking a thumb over Carlos' sun-freckled cheek, knows there's no redeeming him now. This is much worse than Lewis, nearly a decade ago - this is the garage fire he deserves to burn to death in but fuck if he can't help closing his eyes, as though he can escape his own judgement if it's not reflected back by dark, eager pools. He moans, thrusts and _takes_ and Carlos gives like it's his one shot at a test run, like this will get him a trophy.

This is so fucked. It should never have got here.

\---

Carlos wanders through to the GP2 paddock, looking for Mitch. He’s bored and pissed off and tired of fucking Baku and maybe Mitch would be interested in working out some frustration while he waits for the F1 race to finish without him.

It’s hot and he’s filthy in his race suit and he can’t really think of much that would be better than someone fucking him until he can’t remember his own name, let alone the race. Maybe they could wash his hair afterwards and then sort his fucking head out a bit - Mitch is a pretty good call for that, he’s as easy and bitter and never seems to mind Carlos wanting to spoon for a bit once they’re done.

Mitch is already occupied, though, deep in what looks like a pretty whiny (and Carlos is never gonna blame him for that) conversation with Mark, leaning next to each other against a wall and half-shaded by the Campos garage canopy.

Carlos doesn’t know what stops him - he knows Mark, he’s been made breakfast by him and Ann when he’s padded out of Mitch’s bedroom and fallen over a dog. But he pauses, behind some tyres and pretends to be interested in his phone or scanning for Stoffel or something, sunglasses hiding how trained his gaze is on Mitch and Mark.

He’d always been a bit jealous of Mitch, having a Formula 1 driver mentor. Which is ridiculous because he has his dad but that used to feel like a millstone hanging off him, the kind of reputational expectation that crushed his face into the dirt with ten times as much force any time he fucked up.

He has Fernando, of course, now - and in a way it’s even better because they can race each other, because he knows Mark, because Carlos is in Formula 1 already. But Fernando isn’t quite the same - he doesn’t have as much invested in Carlos’ career and his form of mentoring is mostly viciously cutting you up on track, a masterclass in performance.

Fernando doesn’t, wouldn’t put an arm round his shoulders, ruffle Carlos’ hair, look at him fondly like that and tell him to cheer up. A clap on the back and a rousing invocation to sharpen his pride into a vicious weapon, sure - maybe even some ‘listening to Carlos whine’ if he caught him at the right moment, preferably with a glass of wine in his hand. But Fernando could - would have to - use anything Carlos ever said about his garage. They’re dealt into the same table and Alonso’s hand is impoverished to his chips.

Mark hugs Mitch and Carlos thinks he should stop looking at them, stop feeling weirdly jealous - of course he’s annoyed that Mark’s bogarting time when Carlos could be dragging Mitch back to the motorhome, get them both dripping with a better-feeling sweat.

Mitch tucks his head against Mark’s chest, eyes closed and for a second, Carlos is reminded of the way his lashes fall against his cheeks, making long shadows across Mitch’s face as he comes, propped above Carlos. Mark seems to dwarf him, the Kiwi so short he barely reaches the older man’s shoulder, Mark’s arms enveloping him.

It’s nice - Mitch is obviously upset, a bit bruised, generally unhappy with the season beyond the race that just happened. Carlos feels - only very slightly - resentful that he doesn’t have someone to take care of _him_ that way, beyond his family. Mitch and Mark have a closeness that goes beyond the complications of actual relatives, as much as Mark might as well be his second dad.

Which makes it kind of surprising when Mitch, clearly deliberately, seems to have enough of the hug and moves a hand down to pinch Mark’s arse. Carlos stares down at his phone, just in case either of them notice he’s there. What the _fuck?_

Mitch is a flirt - of course he is - but surely not with Mark? Maybe it’s an Australian thing? Daniel is kind of weird. Mitch has never mentioned there being anything between him and Mark but then maybe he wouldn’t, pressed against and into Carlos’s body is hardly the time to bring up other lovers.

Maybe it would make sense? They are very close. But why would Ann allow it? Carlos can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, not just from the heat. He should go.

He fires off a text to Mitch - ‘ _Came to see you but your busy with Mark? In room 354 maybe you want later._ ’

He wanders off, lacking direction suddenly. Mitch _can’t_ be fucking Mark, that’s too weird. Maybe Mitch is just an inappropriate little shit all the time - in fact, that’s exactly what he is. It’s one of Carlos’ favourite things about him, that he’s just in your face and rude and crowding and Carlos never has time to feel weird about things, can leave his more complicated feelings elsewhere.

He’s just contemplating what would happen if he pinched Fernando’s arse when he walks straight into his teammate, trying to get back into the motorhome. Oh, fine then - sex with Daniil is always fun.

\----

Fernando looks over the ruffled mop of hair that’s spread across his own shoulder, Carlos curled against his side. The boy likes to cuddle, after - Fernando’s always been a bit partial to it himself, doesn’t mind the warm weight of the younger man against him at all, Carlos’ fingertips tracing patterns across his hipbones.

He feels softer about Carlos than he should, he knows. Literally fucking your own protegee is a bit too sharp a pride metaphor, even for him but he’s fucked if he can help it, now.

Dark eyes, tan skin and a lithe, enthusiastic body have wrecked him. He’s the opposite of undisciplined, in all things except the bedroom - warm skin and wet lips a temptation too far for a man driven by thirst. He can deny himself everything to get what he wants but when the prize offers itself so willingly it’s hard to invent a logic in which he’d refuse it.

Carlos curls closer, his still-slightly-hard dick rubbing against Fernando’s hip, slightly slick from where he’d wrapped his fingers around it, made Carlos come across his own stomach with Fernando buried balls-deep inside him. Fuck, he’s so young.

\----

Carlos has been thinking about it for ages. He ends up texting Mitch, suggesting they meet up for dinner and drinks, then debating where to go exactly long enough to make sure he can move it to his flat and that Mitch knows what that means.

They’re on the sofa, making out. Carlos loves Mitch like this - writhing and responsive, competitive. They’re half-wrestling, legs wrapping around each others’ and a constant battle for who’s on top of who, giggling against each others’ mouths in between deep, tongue-filled kisses.

It feels so good, good enough that Carlos has kind of thought about whether he and Mitch should just actually try being together. It’s silly and affectionate and domestic and Mitch’s hand on his arse, Mitch’s legs round his waist are security and warmth and all the trust between them.

It’s sweet and it’s gorgeous and it’s everything Carlos likes: he’s going to wreck it.

Pulling back for a second he rolls, pins Mitch with a sudden seriousness. “Are you,” he ducks his head to make their lips meet, soft and slick, for a second, “fucking Mark?”

Mitch goes stiff underneath him, instead of the muscular resistance-hug he’d been in. It tells him everything he needs to know, in a way; the deep rouge of the blush rising on Mitch’s cheeks says the rest, along with his quickening heartbeat.

“Or maybe he fucks you?” Carlos kisses him again, nuzzles Mitch, “Is ok, I don’t care - only want to know.”

Mitch wriggles underneath him, Carlos using his weight to keep him underneath as long as he can, until he’s inevitably flipped onto his back.

“Why? Do you want to fuck Alonso or something?” Mitch looks defiant, although the definition of his cheekbones is flashed red still and Carlos can’t stop himself taking in a sharp breath. Shit. They do understand each other too well, sometimes.

His voice sounds more wrecked than he expected - “I don’t know.” Mitch’s blush is dying down, scrutinising him.

“Yeah.” Carlos deliberately looks confused at Mitch, wants to make Mitch say it for some reason - like he needs to break this taboo, to give Carlos permission.

“Yeah, I am fucking him.” Carlos grins, pleased he’s got it out of him, Mitch mirroring his expression with a wicked look; “Or well, yeah. He fucks me.”

“You are a dangerous one.” Mitch grins again at the half-compliment, half declaration of insecurity, grinds down so there’s some delicious friction between their dicks, turning things hot between them again.

“Mmm, you love it.” Their mouths meet again, hands all over each other and Carlos almost stops the wrestling, spreads his legs and drags Mitch down to him.

He lets him fuck him over the arm of the sofa, Carlos gripping at the seam of the cushion, kneeling as Mitch pounds into him from behind. It makes Mitch come faster than usual, leaves Carlos panting on his back and getting blown, writhing when he comes in Mitch’s mouth.

They snuggle up, after - Mitch spooned up behind him as they curl around each other on the sofa, lazily kissing and touching. Mitch bites at his ear, whispers to him, “Are you jealous?”

Carlos doesn’t quite know how to say that he is and he isn’t. Jealous that Mitch has someone like Mark, frantically turned on imagining the sex they probably have, the idea of Mark bringing Mitch off. He isn’t jealous over Mitch, though - he knows damn well whatever he and Mark have will be nothing like the affectionate, giggly freedom they have with each other.

It comes out wrong when he says it “Is nice to be looked after.”

Mitch makes an almost huffy noise, cuddles Carlos close, his nose pressed against his neck and arms and legs fully entangled around him. They stay like that, quiet and still, until Carlos is just about to suggest ordering takeaway or getting in bed when Mitch moves around, kisses his neck and speaks again - “It really is.”

\----

Fernando should not be doing this. He’s got over condemning himself to hell in some afterlife, he thinks he’s probably weeks away from experiencing it in the here and now.

Carlos is beneath him, head tucked against Fernando as he shakes through an orgasm, dragging a few last bursts of Fernando’s along with him. He’s an idiot, he’s fallen for the younger man. He doesn’t do this sort of thing - except that truly, his heart always does.

What had been hellishly sinful is now desperately sad, because Fernando knows Carlos is smarter than this, somehow. He knows he has other hookups - albeit unlikely to be ones that make him whine their name quite so reverently, who can draw pleasure out of him the way Fernando can.

Fernando shudders, pulls out, presses his face into the sweaty skin of his protegee. Carlos’ breathing is quick and shallow, matching his own - like the air’s been sucked out of them both. For a second, they’re nothing but flesh and pleasure and heat, animals fucking other animals who don’t care so much about the thirteen years between them or any of the scandal here.

Fernando knows what he has to do. He mistook who was giving and taking here, at first - in a moment, he’ll look after Carlos. And it’s him whose hands are tied, now; Carlos is legal but not forgivable, it would be Fernando who’d be fucked if this got out. And he can’t stop digging this hole.

\----

Mitch doesn’t speak about it again. And maybe it’s just that Carlos _knows_ but he starts noticing the way Mitch touches Mark, the way he stubbornly stands too close to his mentor, the way he’s too handsy, almost brattily demanding attention.

He starts slow, with Fernando - gets more physical, deliberately brushes their hands together walking, stares a little too long. It’s studied - he’s not even sure why he’s doing it, whether Fernando would respond like Mark has, whether Carlos even wants him to but he’s got this planned.

Lying in bed, hand around his dick while he thinks about Mitch stretched out on Mark’s bed, the idea of his… what, are they like boyfriends or something by now? His Mitch, whatever, showing off stretching and moaning while he’s getting fingered by Mark, teasing and drawn out. He pants into his pillow and arches slightly, imagining Fernando wanting him, being tortured by it.

He wants Fernando to want to protect him. Except he doesn’t, he just wants him on his side - irrevocably so, he wants the older driver chained to him. He wants him to think of him every time he fucking comes for the rest of his life, think about how wrong it is and want it anyway.

His hand almost slips on his dick, it’s so slick and he’s in a world of fucking wrong himself when he comes thinking about Mitch panting, riding Mark’s cock, spattered in his own spunk.

Later, he gets Daniil to fuck him and doesn’t think of anything else.

\---

Fernando pads out of bed, downstairs, feeling his way in the dark. He’s alone but he’s not making this call in his bedroom, dialling Mark as his heart thumps.

The line crackles to life, pushing static into his ear like an engineer’s radio message, doesn’t let Mark get the first word in because he’ll bottle this at the first pleasantry and Fernando Alonso does back down, more than he wants to admit. And he's got to admit a lot more than he wants to.

“Am going to hell, Mark. Are you fucking him, too?”

It’s vaguely reassuring to know it’s true the devil has the best company.

\---

Mitch rolls over in bed, kisses his shoulder, “Please tell me we will never fuck anyone we mentor. I don’t care if that’s hypocritical.”

Carlos hums at him, pulls him closer. Sure, they’ll be better - they learnt from the best.


End file.
